


Just Let Go - An Emma Frost, Sex Therapist Encounter

by Nathaniel_Quietly



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Mentioned Jean Grey, Oral Sex, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 13:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30005589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nathaniel_Quietly/pseuds/Nathaniel_Quietly
Summary: Set during the Morrison Nex X-Men run, Emma Frost holds a rendezvous with Scott Summers behind his wife's back in order to help him realize some deep seated psychological trauma.
Relationships: Emma Frost/Scott Summers
Kudos: 8





	Just Let Go - An Emma Frost, Sex Therapist Encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pencilxpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilxpaper/gifts).



“Kiss it,” Emma Frost said, her tone flat.

Scott Summers ran an uncomfortable hand through his brunette hair, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His back was still stinging. “Emma, that’s not...something I’m really into.” 

“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” she said. The tone of her voice didn’t budge. “Get on your knees. Crawl towards me. And kiss. It.”

Scott winced. Every instinct, every muscle in his body screamed against the command. His thoughts rebelled, demanding that he say ‘no’, storm out, break the connection and walk away. That he spend some time in the Danger Room, working out, unleashing his optic blasts against safe, holographic opponents, building up a sweat and straining his muscles in honest, hard exercise.

But that...that was what he always did, wasn’t it? That’s why he was here. Because whenever Jean had wanted a moment of intimacy beyond a kiss or a long embrace, he had frozen. Because their lovemaking had been...antiseptic, chaste. Because he was afraid to give himself to another person. Because, even before the tremendous power of his eyes had manifested itself, closing him off from the world…

...he had laid in his bed in the cold and the dark in the Nebraskan orphanage, threadbare blanket pulled up to his chin, feeling so alone and so unloved and so completely out of control of his own life.

He pulled in a deep, slow breath through his nose, and sighed. “Okay,” he said, then amended, “Yes, mistress.” And with an effort of will he was almost embarrassed he had to make, he sank to his knees. Emma’s pouting silver lips quirked into a small smile as his hands fell to the white emptiness of the floor below him, and he began to move forward, head bowed, on hands and knees, towards her.

“Good boy,” she murmured as he advanced.

* * *

"Who are you?"

Scott had to pause a moment while taking off his shirt to laugh. “That’s a strange question to ask the person whose head you’re in, isn’t it?”

They were in the blank White Room of Scott’s deepest subconscious, buried under layers of the Professor’s psy-shield training and the indomitable will of Summers himself. Of course, if his wife Jean, one of the most powerful psychics on the planet, had decided to find them, all of that protection would be moot. But Jean didn’t want to look, so for the moment, Scott’s secret was safe.

Emma Frost was taking her role as his therapist a bit more literally today, he saw; instead a sprawling bed made up with satin sheets upon which she could lounge coquettishly, she sat in a high backed victorian chair. The cushions were covered in a deep red leather, set off by the startling white of Emma’s lingerie and the paleness of her exposed skin. She was dressed as the White Queen today, Scott was relieved to note. Emma had taken to dressing in the green and gold of the Phoenix during their encounters, which both aroused and upset him in equal measure. Seeing her in her more traditional outfit was oddly comforting.

“Who are you?” she asked again. Her tone was clipped, precise. None of the honeyed seduction of their last few sessions. This was..this was new.

Scoot glanced around for a place to sit to remove his boots; he realized that Emma had only manifested one piece of furniture, and she was occupying it. With a mild annoyance he tried not to let show on his face, he sat on the empty floor and began to work the laces.

“Uh, Scott Summers,” he said. What the hell, he thought. Playing along can’t hurt.

“And?”

And what? He growled silently. He was beginning to get annoyed. Normally, Emma was...submissive, during their sessions. Letting him take the lead in their conversations, in their...encounters. Sure, she would tease him, playfully, getting a rise from him, pretending to rebellion so he could gain pleasure from her acquiescence. This was different, though. No playful tone, no seductive posture. Just an imperious, straight-backed demeanor and another question to which she knew the answer.

“I’m...Cyclops? Leader of the X-Men?” he tried.

“And who else?” she asked. She had decided on silver eyeshadow and lipstick to compliment the crisp, snowy whiteness of her accoutrement. So that was to be the game this time. She was the Ice Queen once again, the villain that had subdued the X-Men so many years ago. He stood up again, unbuttoning his pants. 

“I don’t know what you’re asking. I’m Nathan Summers’s father? I’m the husband of Jean?” He paused a moment to see if this comment wounded, but her expression did not falter. “I’m the son of Christopher Summers. I’m the first X-Man. I’m your patient. I’m the, the person responsible for this school, and all the lives within it. I’m...what do you want me to say, Emma?”

The smallest part of her tongue broke the icy perfection of her mouth, poking out and briefly touching the philtrum above her lip. “‘The person responsible’,” she quoted, and stood from her chair. “That is your curse, is it not, love? To ever be the light in the dark, the beacon for mutantkind. To be the gold standard of our people. To be a testament to what a mutant can do, even when their powers have the potential for such terrible destruction.” She pouted. It was sexy, yes, but there was a tinge of dismissiveness to it. As if she intended it to be demeaning instead of empathetic. “Does that weigh on you, honey? Does the weight of the world ever crack those broad, muscled shoulders?” 

Scott looked at her for a long moment through the ruby quartz of his glasses, and shrugged. “I don’t really think about it,” he said. After a moment, he added, “It’s been a part of me for so long, I guess it’s just something that’s always there.”

“The stress. The need to stay in control. It’s a part of you,” Emma agreed, nodding. “It...defines you. Give you strength.” Her crystalline eyes took in his lithe, naked form, slim and heavily muscled, scarred from years of service to humanity and mutanity alike. “But it also weakens you, my dear. In ways you cannot...will not let yourself...comprehend.”

“Emma…” he began.

She held up a white-gloved finger. ‘No names,” she said. “Not now. Not here. Today, right now, this is my space. I am the Mistress here. Do you understand?”

This time, Scott couldn’t keep the annoyance off his face. “I do. But what if I refuse?”

She pointed over his shoulder. “There’s the door.” Scott glanced back, and sure enough, an ornately carved wooden door had appeared about ten feet behind him. It hung in the emptiness, framed in nothing and closed against nothing. 

“If you choose to leave, however, our sessions are at an end. Your choice. Your...responsibility.” And she lowered her finger.  
Scott started to turn, and even considered taking a step towards the door. Something inside, however--some thought, or intuition--stopped him. This hadn’t been a normal rendezvous with Emma. She was acting differently, had an angle he wasn’t seeing. And a part of him wanted, maybe even needed, to know where she was going with this.

“I’ll stay,” he said, planting his feet as though he were facing down a Sentinel instead of a beautiful woman with abundant cleavage.

Emma smirked. “Of course you will. Leaving would mean you had lost control of the situation. And God forbid you be out of control, even for a moment.”

“Hey,” Scott growled, choking back the urge to shout. “You know what would happen if i did slip up, if I did lose control--”

“I know what you think will happen,” she cut him off, her tongue sharp. “I know that even here, in your deepest thoughts, you could not imagine life without the glasses that repress your power. Even here, even with me, your body is a coiled spring. You are tense, and tight, and unyielding. And even though you would never admit it to yourself, you do this to punish yourself.”  
Scott swallowed hard. That hit harder than he had expected. He felt skewered, called to the mat by someone he was coming to trust. He wanted to get angry, to lash back; but he was the man who gave inspiring speeches, not schoolyard taunts. 

Not knowing what else to say, he asked, “And why do you think that? That I punish myself?”

Emma shrugged. “Because for so long, the only person who could take care of you was you. And you believed that was because no one else would do it, that you were not worth taking care of. So you decided that if no one would discipline you for your lack of worth, you would have to do that, too.” 

“Okay,” Scott said, after allowing himself to digest this latest assault on his character. “I asked for this. This is technically ‘therapy’ after all, right? So you’ve given your diagnosis. What’s the solution?"

“Oh that’s simple, dear,” Emma said calmly. “Let go.”

Scott had to stop himself from belting out a shocked laugh. Judging from Emma’s current demeanor, that would have ended badly for him. Still, he couldn’t keep the shock from showing. 

“Oh? Just like that? Should I take off the glasses and stroll through the mansion grounds while I’m at it?”

Emma brought a hand up in a slow, sure gesture, and snapped her fingers. Fire--felt in his mind, not his flesh--lashed across Scott’s back. He barked a note of surprise pain. “Emma?!”

“Mistress,” she said again. Then: “Let go.”

“What? How?” Scott shouted, the second word sounding more like a plaintive cry. “That actually hurt! What do you want...how am I supposed to just let go?”

Emma smiled, and lowered her hand to gesture towards her crotch. Where before there had only been white, translucent satin panties, now rested the eight inch shaft of a strap-on member. It was pearlescent white, and shimmered, as though dusted with pale glitter. 

“Kiss it,” Emma Frost said, her tone flat.

And after a few moments, he did.

* * *

The prosthesis was cold, and surprisingly malleable. Scott had always imagined (when he had imagined such a thing at all) that such a device would have a rubbery, manufactured hardness, made for penetration. And perhaps, in the world outside his own fantasy, they were. Emma’s--the mistress’s, he corrected himself--creation was more gentle to the touch. Spongy, but with a certain teasing stiffness that he marveled to discover he appreciated. After a few dry, gentle kisses to the head and upper shaft, he heard the woman above him say softly, “Now put it in your mouth, baby.” And with almost no thought, he did so.

The chill exterior of the member never faltered, even as Scott’s mouth began to water and the hot saliva began to slicken its surface. It was a strange sensation, though not entirely unpleasant, pulling this cold and unusual object into his mouth, trying to avoid dragging his teeth along its length. His mistress rested a gentle hand on his head, letting her fingers sink into and twirl around his hair; she never pulled, however, or attempted to force the toy deeper into his mouth than he could take. 

Once Scott had found a comfortable rhythm, she began to rock her hips gently; she moaned as the motion worked her clit steadily against her panties, and she lifted Scott’s left hand up to her breast to reward him for his good behavior. With a rough and eager pull, he tore the gossamer fabric covering down and squeezed her voluptuous breast hard, pulling back to twist the nipple between thumb and forefinger before once again kneading it with his palm. She squealed in pleasure as his right hand curved around her body, clutching her buttocks, holding her steady as his mouth worked the shaft as deep as he could take it. 

As Scott began to let himself gag, she gently slid her hands down his arms and up his neck, letting her nails trace across the skin. With tender fingers, she began to lift the sunglasses from his nose.

Scott uttered a sharp gasp in protest, and began to lift his head in a panic. But the Mistress Emma was firm.

“Sshhhhhh,” she soothed. “Hush, hush my love. Trust me. Close your eyes...close them. Good boy. And trust me.” 

With his eyes closed tight against the invisible, incessant pressure that ruled him, he could no longer take in the physical beauty of the woman who attempted to tame him. Worse, he could no longer clock his surroundings; he didn’t know when, or even if, it would be safe to open his eyes.

Except...he did. If he could trust her, this woman, this Mistress, Emma, if he could let go and allow her to take charge...then he could be…

Safe?

“That’s enough, my love,” she whispered, and held his head still as she pulled the sweetly slick rod from his mouth and lifted his face up to hers. “You’ve been so good, she said, and kissed him, deeply, fully, pushing her tongue between his lips. “So good,” she murmured against his teeth as his hands slid up her body and into her hair.

“I need you to get back on your knees, baby,” she purred into his ear. She slid a hand down his chest, sleek with perspiration, and wrapped it around his thick, shaven cock. It throbbed and pulsed with need between her fingers. She squeezed gently, and he moaned.

“Will you do that for me, love? Will you trust me?” she whispered, squeezing and stroking in alternate rhythms.

“Yes,” Scott’s voice was hoarse, almost a husky snarl. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Such a good boy,” she said, running her fingers over her thighs and back as he moved into position. “You may call me Mistress Emma, now. Good boys are allowed to use my name.”

“Thank you...Mistress Emma,” Scott uttered in a low roar. Then he felt the spongy hardness of his Mistress’s strap-on penetrate him.

He had never felt a more pleasurable pain. His body had been penetrated, violated, before: years of shrapnel, stabbings, munitions fire and energy blast had buffeted his frame for so long that pain had become something like an old friend. Not a welcome one, but at least one who knew its way around the place and rarely overstayed its welcome. This pain, however...it seared and stabbed its way from his asshole to his abdomen, contracting his stomach, pulling him in on himself, snapping him shut like a triggered trap. But behind that, beyond the initial pain and the fear that accompanied it, was a sensation he had never known, a deep warm glow that cupped his testicles and ran along the vein of his own shaft, almost tickling it with heat and power. 

After a few moments, Mistress Emma added to that pleasure, leaning over and behind him, wrapping her hand once again around his cock, tugging it smoothly in tandem with the push and pull of her hips behind him.

Scott could feel her pushing deeper into his ass, the pain of it rising again as she worked herself further into him; but the joy rose with it, the undeniable excitement he felt rising slowly, inexorably, in his groin. 

“Let go,” Mistress Emma whispered, pumping her hips, groping and jerking his cock. “Let go, Scott. You have my permission. You have no control, because you do not have to, because you have given it to me. You have my permission, baby. Let go.”  
The pain and the pleasure was almost too much for him. He could barely keep from collapsing onto himself, could barely feel his own hips shake and shift with her own cadence. He was in agony, in ecstacy, and he had no idea how to handle it.

So he did what his mistress commanded of him.

He let go.

He came, his hips bucking against the pressure of the rod inside him, his cock quivering as wave after wave of jism poured out into the emptiness, and as he ejaculated...Scott Summers opened his eyes. 

The optic force blasts tore out of him. The power he released was enough to crumble mountains, to annihilate moons. His body shuddered fiercely as he discharged the blasts into the nothingness around him; his people were safe, they were safe and he was free, he couldn’t hurt them and he could stop...holding...back….

Emma squeezed his testicles as she pulled the dildo out of him, causing both a scream and smaller, second orgasm to erupt from him. A heartbeat later, Scott closed his eyes and rolled onto his back. Emma lay into the crook of his arm, and placed his glasses onto his face once more. She reached down and ran a nail along his still rigid penis.

“Ah!” Scott yelped, then looked abashed. “It’s still, uh, a little sensitive.”

“Good,” Emma said primly. “How do you feel?”

“I’m assuming you’re asking as my therapist now,” Scott said. He took a deep breath. “I feel...relieved? And...empty. But not in a bad way. That’s not the right word. I feel...unburdened. If only for the moment. Like Atlas must have felt, when Hercules held the world upon his shoulders.”

“You carry so much, Scott,” Emma said, tracing a line around the nipple near her face. “And you don’t even realize it. You won’t listen when someone tells you, because you’ve carried the burden for so long you don’t even feel it. Talking wasn’t going to penetrate that thick head of yours.” She leaned up and kissed the scruff of his cheek gently. “The only option you left was to take it from you.”

“Emma,” Scott said, and then paused. “Mistress Emma. Thank you. I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

“You don’t have to call me that now, love, “ Emma smiled. “That part of the game is over. And you didn’t need to ‘earn’ this, or ‘deserve’ it. It was my gift to you.”

Scott lifted his head and smiled down at her. The sincerity of it, in that handsome face of his, would have caused Emma to blush had she been in her own body. 

“Then the title of ‘Mistress’ is my gift to you,” he said. “At least until the end of this session, anyway.”

Emma sighed. “To that point,” she said, and actually seemed a little glum to be say it, “as much as I’d like to stay and cuddle, I’m sure you have leader-y things you should be doing. Or at least teacher-ly things.”

Scott sat up, grumbling. “I suppose you’re right. But again...Emma, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll work something out,” she replied, a coy smile spreading across her face. “Same time next week?”

Once again, Scott looked uncomfortable. “We’ll see,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m in your debt for the...sessions we’ve been having. And so far, Jean doesn’t seem to suspect anything. But I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer.”

Emma Frost just nodded. It was the same thing he said every time he left.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Smut work, so please, let me know what you think! I live for comments


End file.
